THE KITCHEN MAID REMEMBERS THE EMPEROR'S NIGHTINGALE
once more I stand
before the palace wall
my chores half-finished
to hear the nightingale singing
as if it were
the last time at the dim window
and all the little griefs compounded
and the storm clouds
above the Emperor's chamber
turn into fields of
white violets before my eyes.
then I envision a
ladder of jewels, exquisite notes near the veranda
I could scale to anywhere and
no one could lure me back;
and glancing down
my plain apron
breaks out into embroidery
under the spell
enchantment's heart procures;
the Emperor hangs onto life,
his every sigh worth half-a-kingdom,
and the hidden trill is everywhere now:
it settles slightly in my heart
as if it mattered that a
twig could break.
colour washes back into the scene
well-played - down and down the cherry sought
gardens on towards the riverbank of lost delights
beyond-
the fine-edged iridescence
of a small departure only I noticed.
I never heard music like that again
though I lived on:
sifting the snapdragon shadows
on gold-dimmed afternoons;
calling to God when the willow-ware dusk
poured into clouds of the white jade
bidding the firefly angels goodbye-
and the imperial shade.
mary angela douglas 22 october 2010;14 june 2024
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